And all the best it could be,
by ohmygodwritersblock
Summary: This is... fluff? Platonic Johnlock, and yes, I'm afraid I chose Sussex. Forgive me. John and Sherlock retire. Rated T, because sometimes adults swear.


**Well hello there, friends. **

**Yeah so that other fluff piece that turned into angst, I'm going to keep going along that route and what ensues will probably be some almost-fluff.**

**This is about as fluffy as my writing is ever going to get. Enjoy, my pretties.**

* * *

They're on their way back from the case and John is driving, eyes on the countryside speeding past; watching the warm dust of the road drift ahead, spraying out over fields and the swift blur of wildflowers like the bright tint of new fallen snow. Sherlock is still now, all his energy expelled in the madness of a case, his intensity etched in the casual tensity of his profile, less dramatic now that his heavy coat has been tossed to the back seat in wake of the brush of sunlit spring. His eyes flit over the tilting trees that shiver in anticipation of the humming car engine, though his mind appears to be on something else entirely.

And that's when it happens.

The muscles in Sherlock's shoulders snap back and there's a hand on his shoulder. "John, stop the car. Stop, John, stop!" His seatbelt twists against his neck as the wheels grate to a halt and Sherlock's long limbs get tangled in the binding seatbelt fabric while he forgets that there is a release button. He thrusts open the door mid tangle and performs a complex maneuver involving himself bent double, halfway to a forward roll against the windshield to make room for his long legs. They are extracted from the mess one by one and he wobbles on his feet, arms swinging, when his knees take a little longer to exit the car than the rest of him, and then he is off, the door slamming and John gasping for teary breaths close behind.

"Sherlock," His reins back his laughter but his voice is light with amusement, "Where are we going?"

Sherlock runs a few more paces and stops to examine a sign hung haphazardly on gnarled tree branch that reads, when John catches up to him 'For Sale. Two bedroom one bathroom cottage.' and in the corner is a doodle of a bee holding a drooping wildflower, a likeness of those that dot the fields surrounding them. Sherlock taps the sign and whirls around to grab John's shoulders, lips pulling into a grin and crow's feet defining themselves in the creases of his skin, "Bees John, bees."

John's forehead pulls up with his eyebrows and he laughs a little, "Bees?" But Sherlock is already racing ahead down a dirt path that has revealed itself among the quarreling hedges and he calls over his shoulder, "Yes John, bees!" and so John joggs lightly after him with a follow up of, "I'm too old for this, Sherlock."

Sherlock pauses in his tracks for a moment, looking back at John and the intensity behind his eyes flicks on again, and John had almost forgotten how it feels to have himself so thoroughly examined. There's a tilt to Sherlock's head and then he turns abruptly back around. "Nonsense." he dismisses, but the tap of his footsteps have considerably slowed. "Come on then."

John smiles and follows close behind.

They follow the unexpected twist of the path around the wizened trunk of a tree, the bark twisting and weaving in on itself, to discover that what is beneath their feet is a driveway. It leads up, curving softly to widen at the front door, which has shed small flakes of pale blue. Ivy that wriggles up the whether worn, white paint, has found its way under the chipping tiles of the low roof and thorny roses dot wide eyed windows. The cottage itself is nestled behind a row of logs, roped together to form a haphazard fence that ropes in one long side of an overgrown garden that is framed, across from them, with a thick border of trees.

Sherlock hops the fence and sighs contentedly, "Rather charming, isn't it?"

**xxxxx**

They wander through the garden together, picking their way around raspberry bushes and overhanging apple trees until they reach the edge of the space. Sherlock just keeps on walking past the trunks, "Sherlock, I'm sort of assuming that the bees will be somewhere on the property." Sherlock makes an absentminded noise of agreement and lengthens his strides, "This is part of the property. Obviously the couple who lived here wanted to have the beehives out of the way of their living area."

And then they emerge into a small clearing in the forest surrounding them. Sherlock wades through the sea of rippling flower heads until he reaches the set up of bee hives around the edges of the ring. "These are gorgeous, we can move them to the end of the garden, behind the apple trees."

John folds his arms and his eyebrows raise at Sherlock's back, "Can we really." he voices in a deadpan. Sherlock's back straightens like a spring pulled tight and he pivots in the grass. "Ah yes, of course. John, will you retire with me?"

John blinks once, twice. Its true the signs of their age are showing through, the silver creeping up Sherlock's temples, streaking the curls among the inky strands, the laugh lines that are etched into his face and the wrinkle tattooed by furious thinking rests on his forehead, but John had never begun to think of retirement. Age never seemed to pull Sherlock back. John on the other hand, John's breath flags sometimes after running for too long, his joints ache in cold rain and on occasion - which seems to happen more and more - the pull of his shoulder makes him wince; but growing old together, it never seemed like an option.

Yet here Sherlock is, standing tall and offering this future that he could never imagine them having. His thoughts of growing old involved tea and slow evenings and watching Sherlock mad for a case and him slowly being left behind.

So he takes a deep breath and says, "Yes. Good. Yes. Let's take a look at the house."

**xxxxx**

There's a laminated piece of paper tacked over the half moon of a window when they find the back door that reads, Call this number if you're interested: and in blue ink below, a phone number has been scrawled.

Sherlock smiles delightedly and whips out his phone. His face wipes clean for a disconcerting moment and it is obvious what's coming when he clears his throat and an entirely new tone comes out, "Hello, my name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm calling about the house you have for sale in Sussex. I was wondering if I could schedule a viewing for tomorrow." There's a brief pause and then, "Wonderful, thank you. Yes, ten thirty is fine. Thank you, have a lovely day."

John has, during this conversation, wandered around the corner to peek through a window at the interior, and raises his eyebrows at Sherlock when the taller man comes to join him, "Twice in one sentence. I think I've only ever been so lucky… actually you've never thanked me twice in a row." He turns to face him full on and lifts his chin. Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes in reply, "You hardly need me to verbalise my thanks, John." and John just smiles because even after all these years Sherlock still takes him by surprise sometimes.

He says, "Now, I know you brought your lockpicks, let's take a look." and Sherlock pretends to tut under his breath even as he takes them out and starts considering the lock.

**xxxxx**

The interior is long and low and bright and the cottage is completely furnished. Rough wooden chairs sit quietly under a pale blue kitchen ceiling, and windows that let in the sky. The two of them wander through a wide, sturdy doorway devoid of a door and into a sitting room, where a sofa and two arm chairs sit mellowed and plump with age, leaning together as if conversing in hushed tones. Hideous yellow curtains blanket glass panes, which are lined with stamps of tiny green umbrellas and children's rain boots. Sherlock traces a finger over one miniature handel and smirks approvingly. In the corner, a fireplace sits crosslegged, darkened with ash and John thinks that they could fall in love with this place.

Sherlock leaps up the staircase that they find tucked away between the two bedrooms, one master - which Sherlock tried to claim - and one spare - which he eventually deemed worthier of his presence, thanks to John's carefully placed comments. John takes the steps more slowly, running a hand lightly over the cream banister and over faded stains of mud and vague splatters of paint.

He reaches the landing with a sigh and a slight ache in his right leg, but that's just what happens these days.

Sherlock is alight, whirling around the space, enthusiasm personified in every glint of roving sunlight amid his wild curls. "An attic, John. An attic!"

John just leans on the round of the banister and watches with something like hope and longing and sadness all boxed in the well of his throat, as Sherlock mentally places all his various experiments around the room, midnight sleeves rolled just below the elbow to expose etchings of age and proud ridges of scars. "Look at all the space." He leans to knock at a slanted wall, pale skin pressed tight against the vibrations, "And perfectly insulated."

When he pulls away to catch John's smooth gaze, the walls have left his cheek smeared with a layer of dust and John stares at it until the crease in Sherlock's forehead evens out and he sighs, "Really, must you be so juvenile?"

John giggles even as Sherlock brushes past, smearing his cheek against John's sweater and John tries to blend the ensuing grime into the wool as his footsteps join Sherlock's on the stairs.

* * *

**That felt longer while I was writing it.  
There was going to be more of this, a lot more, but I've been writing this between episodes of Supernatural, which I get very worked up about (I may or may not have accidentally slapped myself in the face and then fell off my chair laughing at myself). And this has not been cooperative, it just refuses to write and so I have to keep working at it. Very, very slowly.**

***throws cookie***

**This is a testament to how much I love ArthurDent2, and you know what? It sent me into a deep, dark pit of despair. Ponder how our relationship must be.**

**WELL THAT WAS MY ATTEMPT AT FLUFF.**

**IT SORT OF JUST MORPHED INTO NOT-ANGST. **

**SO YEAH. NOT VERY PROUD OF THIS.**

**If anyone is interested, I know what they'll be up to next in this, and its quite funny, in my head at least. So maybe maybe maybe I could write more of this. I sort of do hate it with my entire body though.**

**BUT I LOVE YOU GUYS! So reviews and anything would be great. *gallops off into the sunset***


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